<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>a little less dungeons, a little more dragons by akisazame</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812272">a little less dungeons, a little more dragons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame'>akisazame</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Banter, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Sexual Roleplay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:08:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So while Quentin was saying something to a Knowledge girl about Doctor Who companion power rankings or whatever the fuck, Eliot had leaned in to chew lightly on Quentin's ear and murmur, "We should do roleplay."</p><p>And Quentin, still relatively uncorrupted despite being fully seduced by Eliot, replied, "What, like— like larping?"</p><p>"Well, I don't know, Quentin," Eliot said loftily, "do you often have your dick out while larping?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>194</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a little less dungeons, a little more dragons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>inspired by the reddit post <a href="https://twitter.com/redditships/status/1260676748343226370">I (27M) told my gf (28F) we could introduce roleplay and it's become a nightmare</a>, to which I replied "imagine your otp" and then proceeded to imagine my otp for approximately 4700 words.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eliot had been the one to bring it up, a random off-hand remark one night while they'd both been lightly trashed, with Quentin just over the line of alcohol consumption necessary to start giving unsolicited and weirdly heated monologues to random passersby about Fillory or Dune or Game of Thrones, which Eliot of course found completely adorable and weirdly sexy. So while Quentin was saying something to a Knowledge girl about Doctor Who companion power rankings or whatever the fuck, Eliot had leaned in to chew lightly on Quentin's ear and murmur, "We should do roleplay."</p><p>And Quentin, still relatively uncorrupted despite being fully seduced by Eliot, replied, "What, like— like larping?"</p><p>"Well, I don't know, Quentin," Eliot said loftily, "do you often have your dick out while larping?"</p><p>Eliot's hand was wrapped loosely around Quentin's neck, thumb grazing the hollow of his throat, so the noise that Quentin made in response to that was felt as well as heard. Quentin's eyes, when Eliot looked at them, were very wide and very dark. "You— you want to do that?"</p><p>To which Eliot could only answer, maybe a little too truthfully, "I want to make all your nerdy little dreams come true."</p><p>Which had all led to this: Quentin and Eliot, three days later, sitting side-by-side on the bed in Eliot's well-warded room, clothes off but underwear on — which had been a whole <em>negotiation,</em> because costumes would be character-building but also a lot of work for something that would almost immediately be removed, not to mention the fact that Quentin's wardrobe was tragic and he didn't fit properly into Eliot's clothes, and for some reason Quentin had decided that a special field trip into the city for, quote, 'sex roleplay outfits' was, quote, 'a little much' — and Quentin saying, in a weirdly-pitched voice that Eliot has never before heard from Quentin's mouth and hopes he will never have to hear again, "Uh, so— hail and well met?"</p><p>And Eliot, immediately violating the most sacred trust between himself and his sexual partner, bursts out laughing, in a way that cannot possibly be construed as <em>laughing with.</em> "What is <em>that?</em>"</p><p>Quentin frowns mightily, like a sexy adult toddler. "What is what?"</p><p>Eliot, face contorting as he attempts to control his continued laughter, makes a circular motion with his hand that indicates the whole of Quentin's mouth. "That accent!"</p><p>"Uh, it's supposed to be like, Sindarin, I guess? Elvish? Lord of the Rings?"</p><p>"Where do you think elves are <em>from?</em>"</p><p>"I, I don't know, where is, what's his..." Quentin gestures expansively, as though whatever information is eluding him can be snatched from the air and reintegrated into his brain. "Orlando Bloom. Where is he from?"</p><p>"Canterbury," Eliot tells him, lightning-quick.</p><p>Quentin's eyes narrow. "How did you know that so fast?"</p><p>"I also went through puberty in the late 2000s, Quentin. Orlando Bloom was born in 1977, went to school at Guildhall, and has a tattoo of a sun on his abs." Eliot pauses when he sees the look on Quentin's face, a tiny bit exasperated but also— "I can keep going, since clearly this is doing it for you."</p><p>"Jesus," Quentin mutters, eyes rolling to the ceiling but cheeks reddening all the same. Eliot grins, delighted. "F-fine, forget the accent. Not all of us have <em>training.</em>"</p><p>"'Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind,'" Eliot intones, falling easily into the British accent that aligns so naturally with Shakespeare. Quentin flushes even deeper, some combination of annoyance and embarrassment and arousal all at once, and Eliot darts in to nip at the curve of Quentin's jaw, just to keep himself from laughing again. "You don't need to do an accent," he breathes against Quentin's skin. "Just do whatever feels right."</p><p>Quentin huffs out a breath, warm against Eliot's ear. "None of it <em>feels</em> right. I <em>feel</em> stupid."</p><p>"Then we can stop," Eliot says. He pulls back to look in Quentin's eyes; he looks stricken, like Eliot's just told him that all the unicorns in Fillory have died. "Not totally. I mean the roleplay thing, if it's just stressing you out. Should I go back to reciting salient facts about the star players in Eliot Waugh's Masturbation Catalog circa 2006? Did you know Zac Efron is only five foot seven?"</p><p>Quentin raises an eyebrow in a way that he's definitely stolen wholesale from Eliot's facial expression handbook. "Zac Efron? Really?"</p><p>"Oh, like you're in a position to judge. I was a gay drama kid, he was in Hairspray, could I make it any more obvious?" Quentin still looks incredulous, so Eliot puts on his most lascivious grin and adds, "Besides, I'd think you'd be excited that I've always been attracted to bite-size snacks."</p><p>"H-how do you just— No matter what, everything you say, even if it's—" Quentin makes a frustrated noise and gives up on words entirely, swiftly moving in for a kiss. It's warm and insistent, open-mouthed, so Eliot figures that this whole night hasn't gone completely off the rails yet.</p><p>"Mmm, well," Eliot says when they break apart, "it's a cultivated skill. I did minor in Devastating Sexiness at Purchase." Quentin ducks his head and Eliot grins, cause and effect. "But let's put the rest of my skills to good use, hmm? You can start with the ren faire line again and I promise I won't laugh."</p><p>"You'll be laughing on the inside," Quentin grumbles. Eliot does not concede or refute the point, because he is exceedingly tactful. "I just— I <em>want</em> to do this, but I don't know how to start."</p><p>That, to Eliot, sounds like stage fright. He knows it's more complicated, that it's Quentin's messed up brain chemistry flooding his body with fear and anxiety until it totally drowns out everything else, but that's far too much to unpack while still staying on task, so Eliot chooses to reframe it as something he can handle without needing a degree in psychology. "Maybe it would help," he says, smoothing his thumb over the adorable wrinkle in Quentin's brow, "if you explain the fantasy to me, rather than being spontaneous. I'm not spoiler-adverse."</p><p>There's a pause while Quentin thinks, chewing idly on his lip, and Eliot thinks <em>no, stop, I should be doing that.</em> Will that thought be in character, for whatever Quentin is planning? Eliot hopes so. "Well, I figured I'd just, uh. Kind of. Make it up as I went along?"</p><p>"Mmm." Eliot shifts on the bed so he's tucked up behind Quentin's shoulder, arms draped around his waist. "So let's write up a script. Tell me about your character."</p><p>"God, this is so embarrassing," Quentin grumbles, but settles back against Eliot's chest all the same. "Okay, uh. I guess I was thinking, you know, your standard fantasy hero? The, the whole Joseph Campbell monomyth thing, like I've just left home for the first time on my call to adventure—"</p><p>"Not the first time my dick's been called an adventure," Eliot teases.</p><p>Quentin's skin heats up in the places Eliot is touching him, shoulder-to-chin and cheek-to-forehead. "Jesus, Eliot, you can't just <em>say</em>—"</p><p>Eliot, with great restraint and forbearance, does not laugh, instead grabbing one of Quentin's hands and interlacing their fingers in what he hopes is a show of solidarity. "Okay, okay, sorry, I'll hold all my notes for the end. I'm listening, tell me more."</p><p>"So he— um, I, I mean, <em>I've</em> just left home and I'm not— I'm not <em>stupid</em> but I'm naive. High int, low wis, if that, like, means anything to you. And, uh." Quentin's blush somehow manages to deepen even further, which is simply delightful. "I know some magic, but not how to use it. I need someone to show me."</p><p>"Interesting," Eliot says. He tugs their joined hands to his mouth and kisses each of Quentin's knuckles in turn. "So you're like Luke Skywalker, then?"</p><p>Quentin freezes, twisting to stare at Eliot with a stricken expression. "N-no, that's not—"</p><p>Adorable. He's just adorable. "Q, you literally just described Luke Skywalker to me. Hero leaving home for the first time, naive to the ways of the world, latent magical ability. That's Luke Skywalker."</p><p>"I was also an elf," Quentin protests. "Before you nixed the accent."</p><p>"Elven Luke Skywalker," Eliot concedes. Quentin's expression shifts into something between desperate and annoyed. "Q, I'm not <em>mad</em> about it. It's like you said, standard fantasy hero." He presses his lips together, corners of his mouth curling in amusement. "Although it sounds like you might be casting me as Yoda in this scenario."</p><p>"What? No. What?"</p><p>"If I'm your magical mentor, that's Yoda. I can work with that. I'm a very good actor." He grins and leans in to nudge his nose against Quentin's cheek. "I always fancied myself more of a Han Solo though."</p><p>Quentin's face goes on a very complicated journey in the span of about 1.5 seconds, and then he settles back against Eliot's chest again, face tilted towards the ceiling in a way that's clearly meant to indicate exactly how much Quentin is suffering. "I mean, if we're deconstructing the whole scenario, sure, I guess I was kind of thinking Han Solo."</p><p>"Fantastic," Eliot says brightly. "But I'm a, uh, Jedi Han Solo? If I'm teaching you magic. Am I an elf too? I can do the accent."</p><p>"I know you can." Quentin's tone is just a bit indulgent, and he tilts his head slightly so it bumps against Eliot's. "I wasn't <em>just</em> thinking Han Solo, though. I mean, like, visually, one hundred percent Han Solo, not that we did costumes or anything, because it really would've been a waste of time, but you know, <em>imagining—</em>"</p><p>Eliot nudges Quentin's shoulder, twisting their bodies so he can kiss him, catching Quentin's lower lip and sucking on it, free hand sliding back over Quentin's face and into his hair. It's half distraction technique and half bubbling over affection, and he breaks it just as he starts to feel Quentin melting into it, shifting over to breathe warm against Quentin's cheek. "Get to the point, sweet thing."</p><p>"I was thinking that I'm rescuing you," Quentin says breathlessly.</p><p>"Oh, I see." Eliot punctuates his words with a warm, open-mouthed kiss right next to Quentin's ear. "So I'm Han Solo, but I'm also gold-bikini Princess Leia."</p><p>Quentin shudders, and Eliot isn't sure whether it's from the kisses, or from embarrassment, or from hearing Eliot say the names of characters from a beloved popular media franchise. Not that it matters, since Eliot's goal was achieved regardless. But then he says, "I mean, <em>technically,</em> Leia wasn't being rescued, because she infiltrated Jabba's palace as part of the larger plan to rescue Han, which means actually Han was the damsel in distress, though he was frozen in carbonite for a lot of it and—"</p><p>"Or maybe," Eliot interrupts, "I just want you to chain me up."</p><p>Quentin pulls back abruptly, staring at Eliot with an expression that's part intrigued and part horrified. "You know she strangles Jabba to death with those chains, right?"</p><p>Eliot, completely unruffled, leans back in to breathe hot against Quentin's ear. "What do you think? Want to throw me in your sarlacc pit?"</p><p>"I never thought I'd say this," Quentin says, sounding vaguely pained, "and I will definitely regret saying it later, but <em>please</em> shut up about Star Wars. Also, what happened to holding your notes to the end?"</p><p>"I thought this was a collab session," Eliot says, all innocence, flicking Quentin's earlobe with his tongue before pulling back to admire his handiwork. Quentin is flushing all over and looks very well-kissed, which is exactly the way Eliot likes him.  "Go ahead. You're rescuing me?"</p><p>"I'm rescuing you." Quentin presses his lips together, cogs turning behind his eyes, and then starts speaking quickly, tripping over his words. "There's a, um, quest to rescue you, because you've been captured. So I go through a cave, slaying monsters with my sword—" <em>Lightsaber,</em> Eliot mentally corrects, because it's so cute that Quentin thinks this isn't just a Fantasy Star Wars porn parody, "using the couple spells I know until I reach you and slay the dragon."</p><p>"Are we acting all that out?" Eliot asks. His cheeks hurt from grinning. "Seems like a bit of a monologue. I can get Margo in here to play the dragon."</p><p>"Jesus Christ, please don't," Quentin says, dropping his head, exasperated, to press his forehead against Eliot's shoulder. "No, that's just. Just the exposition. Because apparently I have to write like, a fucking novel just to do a sexy roleplay with you."</p><p>Eliot shrugs the shoulder Quentin is resting against, forcing him out of hiding. "You extremely did not. That was all you. Did it help? Are you in character? Let's talk about me now."</p><p>Quentin laughs and pushes his hair back with his palm, exasperated. "I mean, I kind of thought you would finish your character yourself."</p><p>"Really?" Eliot asks. "It's your scenario. Don't you want to write my whole character sheet for me? Roll some dice, give me some stats?"</p><p>"You're the worst and I hate you."</p><p>"I'm not and you don't. It's okay, the minor in Devastating Sexiness required two sections of improv. So I've been imprisoned by this dragon and you've come to rescue me. You're the first... human? Elf? Non-dragon humanoid person? I've seen since however long ago the dragon took me." Eliot pulls away entirely, and Quentin looks annoyed until he realizes that Eliot is sliding off the bed and dropping to his knees. Eliot tries to school his expression into something serious as he takes Quentin's hand and brings it to his lips. "My hero," he says, doing the Elvish-British accent because Quentin wouldn't have tried it himself if he didn't think it was sexy, "what is your name?"</p><p>Quentin seems to be a thousand percent on board with Eliot's direction, but the question makes his expression flatline. "I'm— I didn't think we were—"</p><p>"We can pick names for each other instead," Eliot says, sotto voce, against Quentin's knuckles. "Sometimes that's more fun. You would know my name from the village barkeep who gave you the quest, right?"</p><p>"I do not understand your cultural literacy," Quentin mutters, seemingly to himself. Eliot is so enamored that he feels like he'll be bowled over with the force of it. "And I'm not complaining, like, <em>at all,</em> but neither Han Solo or Princess Leia would kneel."</p><p>Eliot tugs Quentin's hand in closer, so he can rest his chin on the back of it. "I thought this wasn't Star Wars, you ridiculous boy."</p><p>"Well, you made it Star Wars and now I can't stop thinking about it." Quentin's eye-roll-as-punctuation is undercut by the way his gaze is drawn right back to Eliot afterwards, desire simmering under the veil of his exasperation.</p><p>"So, what," Eliot says, grinning in a reckless, Lovable Scoundrel Han Solo sort of way as he idly rubs Quentin's knuckles against the curve of his own jaw, "should I do my hair in buns? I know we said no costumes but I'm sure Margo left a bikini top around here somewhere—"</p><p>"Stop it," Quentin tells him, so Eliot does, letting Quentin's hand drop away. "This isn't," Quentin starts, then sighs, the motion making his hair flutter where it hangs in front of his face. Both his hands are hovering awkwardly in the space between them, like he doesn't know where to put them if he's not touching Eliot. "I know you're just messing around, trying to make me loosen up, but it's just making me feel like even more of an idiot."</p><p>"You're not an idiot. You're high int, remember?" Quentin huffs out a laugh, and it makes some of the tension drain out of his face. "I'm sorry. You're right, I'm just teasing but that's not what you want. And this is about doing what you want." Eliot reaches for both of Quentin's hands, only taking them after Quentin nods his assent, and brings them both to rest on either side of Eliot's face, fingertips grazing into Eliot's hair. "Tell me what you want."</p><p>For a second, Eliot thinks that Quentin is going to drop the whole thing and either fall back on some vanilla sex — not that there is <em>anything</em> wrong with vanilla sex — or cancel sex entirely to curl up in bed while Eliot coaxes Quentin into reciting as much of The World in the Walls as he can from memory. Eliot would be okay with that. He's okay with most things, he's coming to realize, as long as he's doing those things with Quentin. But Quentin doesn't drop the whole thing. Instead, he slides his hands down Eliot's arms until he reaches Eliot's wrists, then stands, pulling Eliot to his feet. Quentin circles around and Eliot follows, star and satellite, until the backs of Eliot's legs are against the bed.</p><p>And then Quentin drops to his knees.</p><p>Which, based on the body of past evidence, Eliot should've seen coming from miles away.</p><p>"I've slain the dragon that kept you prisoner," Quentin says. He's not doing the accent, but it's not quite his normal voice either, a sideways transmutation into something crisper and loftier. "If it please you, grant me my reward."</p><p>Jesus. The fact that Quentin has basically just offered Eliot an unlimited menu of sexual pleasures is not lost on him at all. He feels almost dizzy. But this is Quentin's fantasy, which means that he's probably had something in mind all along and is choosing to hedge his bets, and Eliot will <em>not</em> let that slide. He trails his fingertips down Quentin's cheek, letting him lean into the touch for just a moment before pulling away. "And what reward might that be, brave hero?"</p><p>It's Quentin's turn to look punch-drunk with possibility. Eliot thinks he might've miscalculated, that he's just sent Quentin on an anxiety spiral, paralyzed by choice, but then Quentin bites his lip and stares up at Eliot. He's trying to look calm and composed, but his splotchy blush continues to betray him. "They say that you trade favors for spells."</p><p><em>Interesting.</em> Eliot is completely on board with this, because why wouldn't he be, but he can't help but see if he can spice it up a little. "Surely I owe you a spell just for rescuing me?"</p><p>"No," Quentin blurts out, strangely insistent. "No, that's not exactly what I—" Eliot's theater training bristles at Quentin's refusal to Yes, And, but his Quentin training very much wants to see where this is going. Then Quentin's expression changes, all the uncertainty draining away and leaving only confidence behind. "You teach me the spell when you come down my throat."</p><p>Holy shit. Jesus Christ. Eliot thinks maybe he dies for a second, or dissociates, or passes out. At the very least, the bare minimum, all the blood has completely vacated his brain to congregate exclusively in his dick. What the fuck. What the <em>fuck.</em> "Uh, yeah," Eliot says intelligently, "yeah, defin—"</p><p>Quentin interrupts Eliot's deeply nuanced and in-character dialogue by running both hands up the front of Eliot's thighs. His thumbs rub tantalizingly against the bulge in Eliot's boxers. "Please teach me, Magister Ballgarath."</p><p>What. </p><p>Well, okay. That is, objectively, the least erotic thing Eliot has ever been called during sex, including the time that redhead at the magicians' bar seemed to genuinely think that Eliot's name was Trevor. But <em>also,</em> one of the top five most attractive men Eliot has ever seen in real life has just told Eliot he wants to swallow his cock, so honestly Eliot will say he's Gandalf the fucking Grey if that's what it takes to keep this train rolling. He will put on his robe and wizard hat. All remaining dignity has vacated the premises. "Yeah," Eliot says again, the sound strangely broken when it comes out of his mouth. He has the absurd urge to prompt a stage manager for his next line before remembering his own bravado about improv training. Those classes would've turned out <em>very</em> differently if he'd had to perform under this kind of sexual duress. He clears his throat noisily and manages to get out, "Then you should finish undressing me, hero."</p><p>There's a split second where Eliot realizes he's forgotten the British accent, but like, who <em>actually cares</em> about that? Clearly not Quentin, who's taken the permission and is running with it, slipping his warm palms beneath the elastic of Eliot's waistband to slide the garment off. Eliot basically collapses onto the bed; he meant to sit but he's clearly lost control of some essential motor functions because he falls back instead, flat on his back with his knees bent over the edge, and he manages to look up just in time to see Quentin carefully folding Eliot's silk boxers and setting them aside. What. The. Fuck.</p><p>Quentin must notice Eliot looking, because he gives a smug little smile and explains, "The proper care must be shown to all the magister's possessions, or he might deem me unworthy."</p><p>That seems pretty fucking unlikely to Eliot, but maybe this Ballgarath guy is a real hardass. Eliot feels like maybe that should've been up to him, but <em>he's</em> not about to say no to a Yes, And. He takes two seconds to stare at the ceiling and say a prayer to the ghosts of thespians past before propping himself up on his elbows so he can see— Quentin, staring at Eliot's erection just as hungrily as he always does but an undertone of what Eliot can only describe as <em>thoughtfulness,</em> like Quentin is <em>calculating the circumstances</em> of a blow job. Jesus <em>Christ.</em></p><p>"You have to tell me if I'm doing it right," Quentin says, because yes, absolutely, what Eliot really needed on top of everything else was a <em>virgin fantasy.</em> His one remaining functional brain cell is gearing up to point out that maybe it's more of a praise kink thing, that— Luke Coldwater, Quentin Skywalker, whoever, who cares— he just wants to properly put whatever experience he has to use, but then Quentin's fingers are lightly gripping Eliot's shaft as he takes the head into his mouth and that brain cell realizes that its presence is neither requested or appreciated at this juncture, thank you very much.</p><p>Quentin knows Eliot's body well enough by now that Eliot doesn't actually have to give him any instruction; despite what Quentin had said while in-character, his instinct and experience seem to take over once he gets his mouth on Eliot's dick. He's just so enthusiastic about it, always, like it's his life's purpose to suck Eliot's cock, and Eliot wouldn't dream of arguing, except— he's not supposed to be Eliot right now, is he? So he lets Quentin go at it for a minute, because Eliot may be a great actor but he's only human, and then he grabs a handful of Quentin's hair and <em>twists.</em></p><p>It has exactly the desired effect: all of Quentin's frantic movement stops entirely and he <em>groans,</em> eyes squeezing shut. After a moment he tries to pull back, to free his mouth so he can ask a question, but Eliot holds him steady so that Quentin can only open his eyes and stare up at him, pleading.</p><p>Eliot swipes his thumb over Quentin's cheek, warm from his blush and just the slightest bit damp. "So eager," he says, magnanimous; he's finally sorted out who he wants his character to be, and he hopes it's something close to what Quentin had in mind. "But it takes discipline to learn magic this way." Quentin lets out a shuddering breath, and the heat of it almost makes Eliot lose his composure. "Unless," he manages, tugging Quentin's head forward just the tiniest bit, "you didn't <em>actually</em> come here for the spell, did you?"</p><p>He loosens his grip in Quentin's hair and pushes him back so he can answer the question; Quentin looks overwhelmed, like maybe he'd assumed he'd abdicated all his roleplay dialogue responsibilities once he'd dedicated his mouth to far sexier purposes. An entirely fair assumption, Eliot supposes, but now that he's posed the question he finds that he's weirdly invested in the answer. From a characterization standpoint, of course. It takes a minute for Quentin to figure out how to use his tongue to form words again, and then he stammers, "I— I came for the spell, but the— no one said you were so— so—"</p><p>As much as Eliot loves having his ego stroked, that's close enough. "You're so hungry for it," he says, which makes Quentin <em>whine.</em> "But you have to be patient," Eliot tells him as he holds Quentin's head steady and slowly pushes his cock between Quentin's parted lips. "You have to be <em>good.</em>"</p><p>So, <em>Magister Ballgarath,</em> it turns out, is a pushy, domineering asshole who's less of a blow job guy and more of a face fucking guy, which is an extremely fun choice that Eliot has made for himself. They've done this before, Eliot and Quentin, so he's pretty sure Quentin will be down for it, but Eliot starts slowly just to be sure, small thrusts against the inviting curl of Quentin's tongue. Quentin still has that pleading, ravenous look in his eyes, and it doesn't take long before he starts straining against Eliot's grip in his hair, so Eliot holds him in place while he changes position, tucking his legs up so he can kneel on the bed for more leverage. It's <em>intense,</em> and Eliot is surprised and just the slightest bit embarrassed by how close he is to coming already.</p><p>"Look at me," he tells Quentin, who has his eyes shut tight, totally blissed out. "<em>Look at me,</em>" Eliot says again, urgently, punctuating it with a hard thrust that hits the back of Quentin's throat. Quentin's eyes fly open at that, pupils blown wide and hungry. His expression is almost too much for Eliot to take. "You have to—" he says, desperately trying to translate his desire into the language of Quentin's fantasy, "for the— you have to come too, you <em>need to,</em> or the— the magic won't— <em>please,</em> touch yourself, I need you to—"</p><p>The noise Quentin makes is <em>obscene,</em> vibrating all the way through Eliot's body. He keeps thrusting into the inviting warmth of Quentin's mouth as Quentin manages to get a fumbling hand on his own dick. Eliot can't quite see it from this angle, which is a damned shame, but he can feel the way it makes Quentin's whole body tense up, overloaded, hand moving on himself and tongue curling around Eliot and the whole time just staring up at Eliot with tears brimming in his eyes.</p><p>And all Eliot can do is follow the script he was given, his world shattering apart as he comes hard down Quentin's throat.</p><p>It isn't until they're cleaned up and cuddled together in Eliot's bed, skin-to-skin, that he thinks to ask, "So, what was the spell?"</p><p>"Mmm?" Quentin murmurs into Eliot's side, where he's tucked up right in the crook of his arm. "What spell?"</p><p>"The one I—" Ugh, he's not going to make himself say it. "That <em>the magister</em> taught you, with his very powerful magic jizz."</p><p>"<em>God,</em>" Quentin says, like he has any business being embarrassed about it <em>now,</em> when <em>he </em>was the one who came up with it. Eliot will not point this out, because he is warm and sated and does not want to be smacked, even playfully. Then Quentin peeks up at Eliot, smiling, and uses the hand that isn't pinned under Eliot's back to cast Ugarte's Prismatic Spray.</p><p><em>Now</em> is when it's safe to laugh, so Eliot does, curling around Quentin a little with the force of it. The sparks from the spell tingle against his skin. "That's <em>it?</em> What a stingy son of a bitch."</p><p>"Well," Quentin says, the point of his chin pressing into Eliot's chest as he speaks, "it <em>was</em> only the first lesson."</p><p>Eliot grins mischievously. "The Continuing Adventures of Quentin Skywalker, Magical Elf and Exemplary Cocksucker?" Quentin's face goes bright red, just as Eliot had hoped it would, but he's laughing too, and turning his head to press kisses into Eliot's skin, which is really quite a lot more coordination than Eliot thought Quentin would have at this point. "I'm definitely not opposed. But next time," he adds, curling a loose strand of Quentin's hair around his finger, "I <em>insist</em> on costumes."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks(?) to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushinator">crushinator</a> for coining Magister Ballgarath, the worst roleplay name of all time.</p><p>these boys sent me directly to hell and you can yell with me about it on <a href="https://akisazame.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>